Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 38

"_Was_ we?" asked Skipper Billy. "By G.o.d," he roared, "we _is_!"

"My G.o.d!" Docks whispered, staring deep into the skipper's eyes, "they was goin' t' hang the skipper!"

There was not so much as the drawing of a breath then to be heard in the forecastle of the _Greased Lightning_. Only the wind, blowing in the night--and the water lapping at the prow--broke the silence.

"Skipper Billy, sir," said Docks, his voice breaking to a whimper, "was they goin' t' hang the crew? They wasn't, was they? Not goin' t' _hang_ un?"

"Skipper t' cook, lad," Skipper Billy answered, the words prompt and sure. "Hang un by the neck 'til they was dead."

"My G.o.d!" Docks whined. "They was goin' t' hang the crew!"

"But we isn't cotched un yet."

"No," said the boy, vacantly. "Nor you never will."

The skipper hitched close to the table. "Lookee, lad," said he, leaning over until his face was close to the face of Docks, "was _you_ ever aboard the _Sink or Swim_?"

"Ay, sir," Docks replied, at last, brus.h.i.+ng his hair from his brow. "I was clerk aboard the _Sink or Swim_ two days ago."

For a time Skipper Billy quietly regarded the lad--the while scratching his beard with a shaking hand.

"Clerk," Docks sighed, "two days ago."

"Oh, _was_ you?" the skipper asked. "Well, well!" His lower jaw dropped. "An' would mind tellin' us," he continued, his voice now touched with pa.s.sion, "what's _come_ o' that d.a.m.ned craft?"

"She was lost on the Harbourless Sh.o.r.e, sir, with all hands--but me."

"Thank G.o.d for that!"

"Ay, thank G.o.d!"

Whereupon the doctor vaccinated Docks.

XXV

A CAPITAL CRIME

"You never set eyes on old Skipper Jim, did you, Skipper Billy?" Docks began, later, that night. "No? Well, he was a wonderful hard man. They says the devil was abroad the night of his bornin'; but I'm thinkin'

that Jagger o' Wayfarer's Tickle had more t' do with the life he lived than ever the devil could manage. 'Twas Jagger that owned the _Sink or Swim_; 'twas he that laid the courses--ay, that laid this last one, too.

Believe me, sir," now turning to Doctor Luke, who had uttered a sharp exclamation, "for I _knowed_ Jagger, an' I _sailed_ along o' Skipper Jim. 'Skipper Jim,' says I, when the trick we played was scurvy, 'this here ain't right.' 'Right?' says he. 'Jagger's gone an' laid _that_ word by an' forgot where he put it.' 'But you, Skipper Jim,' says I, '_you_; what _you_ doin' this here for?' 'Well, Docks,' says he, 'Jagger,' says he, 'says 'tis a clever thing t' do, an' I'm thinkin',' says he, 'that Jagger's near right. Anyhow,' says he, 'Jagger's my owner.'"

Doctor Luke put his elbows on the forecastle table, his chin on his hands--and thus gazed, immovable, at young Docks.

"Skipper Jim," the lad went on, "was a lank old man, with a beard that used t' put me in mind of a dead shrub on a cliff. Old, an' tall, an'

skinny he was; an' the flesh of his face was sort o' wet an' whitish, as if it had no feelin'. They wasn't a thing in the way o' wind or sea that Skipper Jim was afeard of. I like a brave man so well as anybody does, but I haven't no love for a fool; an' I've seed _him_ beat out o' safe harbour, with all canvas set, when other schooners was reefed down an'

runnin' for shelter. Many a time I've took my trick at the wheel when the most I hoped for was three minutes t' say my prayers.

"'Skipper, sir,' we used t' say, when 'twas lookin' black an' nasty t'

win'ard an' we was wantin' t' run for the handiest harbour, ''tis like you'll be holdin' on for Rocky Cove. Sure, you've no call t' run for harbour from _this here_ blow!'

"'Stand by that mainsheet there!' he'd yell. 'Let her off out o' the wind. We'll be makin' for Harbour Round for shelter. Holdin' on, did you say? My dear man, they's a whirlwind brewin'!'

"But if 'twas blowin' hard--a nor'east snorter, with the gale raisin' a wind-lop on the swell, an' the night comin' down--if 'twas blowin'

barb'rous hard, sometimes we'd get scared.

"'Skipper,' we couldn't help sayin', ''tis time t' get out o' this. Leave us run for shelter, man, for our lives!'

"'Steady, there, at the wheel!' he'd sing out. 'Keep her on her course.

'Tis no more than a clever sailin' breeze.'

"Believe _me_, sir," Docks sighed, "they wasn't a port Skipper Jim wouldn't make, whatever the weather, if he could trade a dress or a Bible or a what-not for a quintal o' fish. 'Docks,' says he, 'Jagger,'

says he, 'wants fish, an' _I_ got t' get un.' So it wasn't pleasant sailin' along o' him in the fall o' the year, when the wind was all in the nor'east, an' the sh.o.r.e was a lee sh.o.r.e every night o' the week. No, sir! 'twasn't pleasant sailin' along o' Skipper Jim in the _Sink or Swim_. On no account, 'twasn't pleasant! Believe _me_, sir, when I lets my heart feel again the fears o' last fall, I haven't no love left for Jim. No, sir! doin' what he done this summer, I haven't no love left for Jim.

"'It's fish me an' Jagger wants, b'y,' says he t' me, 'an' they's no one'll keep un from us.'

"'Dear man!' says I, pointin' t' the scales, 'haven't you got no conscience?'

"'Conscience!' says he. 'What's that? Sure,' says he, 'Jagger never _heared_ that word!'

"Well, sir, as you knows, there's been a wonderful cotch o' fish on the Labrador side o' the Straits this summer. An' when Skipper Jim hears a Frenchman has brought the smallpox t' Poor Luck Harbour, we was tradin'

the French sh.o.r.e o' Newfoundland. Then he up an' cusses the smallpox, an' says he'll make a v'y'ge of it, no matter what. I'm thinkin' 'twas all the fault o' the cook, the skipper bein' the contrary man he was; for the cook he says he've signed t' cook the grub, an' he'll cook 'til he drops in his tracks, but he _haven't_ signed t' take the smallpox, an' he'll be jiggered for a squid afore he'll sail t' the Labrador.

'Smallpox!' says the skipper. 'Who says 'tis the smallpox? Me an' Jagger says 'tis the chicken-pox.' So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he had--says he'll sail t' the Labrador all right, but he'll see himself hanged for a mutineer afore he'll enter Poor Luck Harbour. 'Poor Luck Harbour, is it?' says the skipper. 'An' is that where they've the--the--smallpox?' says he. 'We'll lay a course for Poor Luck Harbour the morrow. I'll prove 'tis the chicken-pox or eat the man that has it.'

So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he had--says _he_ ain't afraid o' no smallpox, but he knows what'll come of it if the crew gets ash.o.r.e.

"'Ho, ho! cook,' says the skipper. '_You'll_ go ash.o.r.e along o' _me_, me boy.'

"The next day we laid a course for Poor Luck Harbour, with a fair wind; an' we dropped anchor in the cove that night. In the mornin', sure enough, the skipper took the cook an' the first hand ash.o.r.e t' show un a man with the chicken-pox; but I was kep' aboard takin' in fish, for such was the evil name the place had along o' the smallpox that we was the only trader in the harbour, an' had all the fish we could handle.

"'Skipper,' says I, when they come aboard, '_is_ it the smallpox?'

"'Docks, b'y,' says he, lookin' me square in the eye, 'you never yet heard me take back my words. I _said_ I'd eat the man that had it. But I tells you what, b'y, I ain't hankerin' after a bite o' what I seed!'

"'We'll be liftin' anchor an' gettin' t' sea, then,' says I; for it made me s.h.i.+ver t' hear the skipper talk that way.

"'Docks, b'y,' says he, 'we'll be liftin' anchor when we gets all the fish they is. Jagger,' says he, 'wants fish, an' I'm the boy t' get un.

When the last one's weighed an' stowed, we'll lift anchor an' out; but not afore.'

"We was three days out from Poor Luck Harbour, tradin' Kiddle Tickle, when Tommy Mib, the first hand, took a suddent chill. 'Tommy, b'y,' says the cook, 'you cotched cold stowin' the jib in the squall day afore yesterday. I'll be givin' _you_ a dose o' pain-killer an' pepper.' So the cook give Tommy a wonderful dose o' pain-killer an' pepper an' put un t' bed. But 'twas not long afore Tommy had a pain in the back an' a burnin' headache. 'Tommy, b'y,' says the cook, 'you'll be gettin' the inflammation, I'm thinkin'. I'll have t' put a plaster o' mustard an'

red pepper on _your_ chest.' So the cook put a wonderful large plaster o' mustard an' red pepper on poor Tommy's chest, an' told un t' lie quiet. Then Tommy got wonderful sick--believe _me_, sir, wonderful sick!

An' the cook could do no more, good cook though he was.

"'Tommy,' says he, 'you got something I don't know nothin' about.'

"'Twas about that time that we up with the anchor an' run t' Hollow Cove, where we heard they was a grand cotch o' fish, all dry an' waitin'